


giving in to the Darkness

by SenshineKkaebsong



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Monsters, Angst, Anxiety, Billy Hargrove is there, Christmas, Depression, Happy Ending, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Robin Buckley is an amazing friend, Steve Harrington Needs Love, Steve's parents fuck him up, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-15
Updated: 2020-12-15
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:13:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28095213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SenshineKkaebsong/pseuds/SenshineKkaebsong
Summary: There are no monsters in this tale, except for the ones that live inside Steve's head and heart, growing the darkness within him every day. He's ready to give up. Then Billy gives him his jacket.
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington, Robin Buckley & Steve Harrington
Comments: 2
Kudos: 118





	giving in to the Darkness

It’s too cold for this, Steve thinks, but makes no attempt to move. His knees are pulled to his chest where he sits, coldness wafting off the concrete seeping into his jeans, leaving him damp through his briefs. Fingers clutching his chest, he closes his eyes and focuses on the dull bass he can just barely hear that’s spilling out of the middle school auditorium where the fucking Snow Ball is at its peak. Cyndi Lauper croons sweetly into the frigid December night, so cold that Steve’s nose is starting to run. He sniffles, jaw tensing until his molars hurt, and then sighs, breath fogging up before his eyes as he opens them to the inky black sky, not a star in sight. It’s not long before the rumble of Billy’s Camaro drowns out the faint music and otherwise deafening silence, screeching to a halt before Steve. The window rolls down and a cloud of thick smoke pours out, revealing Billy’s face, washed pale under the dull streetlamp. “The fuck you doing out here, Harrington? Get in.”

Steve doesn’t even question it. It takes a moment before his brain can sufficiently command his stiff, sore body into action, and with a heavy groan, he hauls himself off the curb, knees cracking, and hobbles over to the car. He only realises how cold he is when he’s hit with the warm blast of air coming from the vents, and his body automatically breaks into uncontrollable shivers, teeth chattering audibly over the rumble of the engine. Billy takes one look at him and scoffs. “Jesus fuck, Steve. Fuckin’ mess.” He hisses, flicking his cigarette out the window and rolling back up the glass. Then he’s shifting around, slipping out of his bomber jacket and throwing it at Steve’s face. 

“W-wha?” Steve stammers, staring at the clothing that’s flomped onto his lap, carrying Billy’s body heat with it. Is the guy a fucking furnace? 

“Need me to put it on for ya too, pretty boy? Goddamn princess, I swear to god.” Billy sneers but reaches across and tugs it over Steve’s shoulders, ungluing his arms where they’re wrapped around his waist and pushing them through the sleeves. “Shit, you’re an icicle, Harrington.” The blond huffs, frowning deeper when their fingers touch. If Steve couldn’t see his fingers, he would have thought they’d fallen off or something - he has no feeling in most of his body. That’s probably alarming but his brain is still offline. Billy’s warmth trapped in his jacket helps, though. It surrounds him like a gentle hug from the fucking sun or something and the dull smell of cologne mixed in with crisp winter air, has his breathing slowing down, the tightness in his chest unfurling a little. 

Finally, he heaves a deep breath and settles back into the leather seat, body going lax as his eyes slip shut. The car lurches forward and Billy doesn’t talk any more. 

When Steve opens his eyes, they’re in Loch Nora, his house looming like the empty, hulking vessel it is. Billy’s reading a pretty beaten up book, one foot propped up on the seat, the other spread wide, the gear digging into the meat of his thigh. Steve’s warm all over, hot even, but so fucking comfortable. He sighs and stretches, a small sound escaping his throat, the jacket material crinkling. “About time.” Billy snorts, closing his book and leaning over to shove it in the glove compartment. Steve gets a whiff of hairspray and smoke and cologne, stronger than the scent in the car but not strong enough to be offensive. He kind of likes it, actually. 

“Sorry,” he licks his lips, blinks sleepily and yawns. “How long was I out?” 

Billy shrugs. “Long enough. Gonna get out of my car, Harrington? I gotta pick up the little bitch in twenty.”

“Oh fuck. The dance.” Steve jolts up as panic shoots down his spine. He turns to Billy with wide eyes. “I gotta get Dustin. Oh my god, I promised- What time-”

“Whoa, hold the fuck up before you pop a vein or something. It’s almost half nine. I’m sure the kid is fine or whatever.” Billy flaps a hand dismissively. 

“No, you don’t get it, Billy. I promised him I’d be there in case shit went south and what if- what if it did and he went looking for me but I’m not _there_ and-”

“Steve, man, you gotta chill the fuck out. I’ll take you back to your fucking co-dependent child friend, okay?” Billy starts the car, throwing glances his way as he backs out of the driveway and onto the street. “You with me?” He asks, two minutes into the drive. Steve nods, tongue glued to the roof of his mouth. 

“I need verbal answers, pretty boy. Yes or no. You with me?” The car lurches as Billy shifts gears and floors it, roaring down the streets of Hawkins. Steve knows the only reason they haven’t been stopped is because Hop’s at the middle school waiting on Jane and the other cops are incompetent as fuck and are probably bumming it back at the station. He’d given thought to becoming an officer, had Hop almost talk him into signing up at the Academy in Chicago, but Hawkins isn’t the place he’d want to come back to lay down the law. Callahan is a prime example of what he doesn’t need to be.

“Harrington!” Billy yells, cutting through his spiralling thoughts. Steve blinks and shakes his head, dispelling the fog. 

“Uh, yeah?” He croaks. 

“I asked a question. Fucking answer it.”

It takes him a while to remember what exactly Billy had asked. “Oh! Oh yeah, yeah, I’m fine. Thanks.” Even to his own ears, that sounds like a lie. 

Billy exhales and grits his teeth, brows pinching as he slows, pulling into the parking lot and driving all the way up to Steve’s car. “See? No tiny nerd. He’s in there dancing his ugly little pants off. You worried for nothin’.”

“I-” Steve looks around at the parking lot slowly filling up with cars, parents getting out to greet their kids who are clinging to the vestiges of their middle school pinnacle. “Yeah, you’re right. I’m sorry I freaked out. Sometimes-” he starts and then cuts himself off with a frown. “Anyways, it doesn’t matter. Thanks again, Billy.” And he rushes out of the car before he can hear the guy’s response, unsure if he wants to even see the look Billy’s sporting right now, stepping straight over to his car and slipping in. It’s fucking freezing and he starts it, groaning as heat blasts through the vents, immediately warming up the interior. When he glances in the rearview mirror, the Camaro is gone. 

Not long after that, the door swings open and Dustin flies in, already screeching before his ass can even touch the seat. “Steve! Steve, oh my god! Dude! You wouldn’t believe the night I had!” He launches into a story that starts with a _pitiful young man on the cusp of teenage maturity_ \- Dustin’s words, not his - in search of _the one,_ and ends with Nancy Wheeler and hearts shooting out of his ass. 

“Sounds like you really killed it out there. Proud of ya, dude.” Steve smiles, because yeah, Dustin is a fucking dork, but he’s got a soft spot for the kid, treats him like the brother he’s never had and always wanted, and seeing him so genuinely happy and filled with joy makes him happy too. He pulls up to the Henderson house, noting the light spilling through the windows, Claudia hopping around in the kitchen with Mews in one arm and a teacup in another. It looks homey. 

“Thanks, Steve. You were right.” Dustin grins, eyes squinting adorably. Steve’s heart squeezes with overflowing fondness and he pats the kid’s shoulder, not wanting to mess up his neatly styled hair. “See ya!” He yells and is halfway out the car when he turns around, brows lifting curiously. “Where’dya get the jacket from?”

Steve looks down at himself and freezes. Oh fuck. Billy’s jacket. “Uh, it’s- I bought it. Went home and picked it up cuz it was cold.” He laughs, looking out the windshield. 

“Oookay.” Dustin drawls, disbelieving and confused. “Get home safely.” 

Steve nods, fingers gripping the steering wheel so tight, his arms hurt. Shit. He waits until the front door closes and drives off, eyes wide and heart pounding in his chest. When he pulls up to his house, he half expects the Camaro to be sitting in the driveway and feels a little stab of disappointment when it’s empty as always. 

Sleep has eluded him for yet another night but work is an obligation, and even with the exhaustion weighing him down and the two cups of coffee he’d chugged doing nothing but increasing his anxiety, he drags himself through the mall, Scoops uniform tucked under more acceptable clothes. He’s early, Robin’s in the back, shoving her bag in her locker, sailor hat sticking out of her pocket. “Hey.” He greets and gets a grunt in return. He slips off Billy’s jacket, tries not to think about how he hasn’t taken it off since it was put on him except to shower and change this morning, and carefully tucks it into his locker along with his bag. His jeans and t-shirt come off next and then he’s left fixing his shorts, trying to tug it down enough to cover his thighs without having it halfway down his ass. 

Robin plucks his hat from his bag before he can close the locker door and dumps it onto his head. “It actually makes your hair look better today, dingus.” She grins before washing her hands and grabbing the ice cream scoop from the drawer. 

“Thanks.” He mutters to the air and does the same, leaving the hat askew, too tired to actually give a fuck. The day passes in relative silence between them. Customers are few and far between, what with the rapidly dropping temperatures approaching the year end. Most people are just trying to get their Christmas shopping out of the way and return home to warmth and a lack of chaos. He can vaguely remember a time when he was one of the kids being led around by his mom, grumpy and tired while she got her shopping done and tried to simultaneously console him. Steve feels the exhaustion in his bones but somehow his eyes refuse to shut. He plasters on a smile for customers, sings that stupid fucking jingle every time someone tips and completely ignores the _one girl_ who actually tries to flirt with him, unwilling to meet Robin’s concerned looks. 

And it’s going fine, really, nothing he can’t manage -- the crippling anxiety, tiredness he wears like a second skin and deep-seated sadness is just another day in the life of Steve Harrington -- until Billy fucking Hargrove strolls in, dark-washed jeans painted on like a second skin, black leather jacket clinging to his shoulders and biceps and a thick white thermal tucked into the waistband of his pants. His boots stomp across the floor in time with the rapid beating of Steve’s heart and he audibly swallows, perking right up like a wilted flower tasting water after days of drought, absently fixing the hat on his head. “Harrington.” Billy smiles, sharp and wide. 

“Hey.” He nods back, totally cool. Completely fucking unaffected. Even leans his hip against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest casually. The picture of calm and collected. “What can I get for ya?”

Billy’s eyes very pointedly drag over every inch of Steve’s body, steely blue and fierce, before settling on his face, smirking like a dick. “I think you know what I want, Stevie.” 

“No, I don’t, actually.” Steve retorts, feeling irritation crawling beneath his skin. He thinks of the jacket in the locker, how Billy’s scent has penetrated his pores because he’d worn the thing all fucking night. It probably smells a little bit like Steve too, now. And isn’t that something. He desperately wills the heat crawling up his neck to settle the fuck down. 

“My jacket would be nice. And a scoop of salted caramel.” Billy winks, not missing a beat.

“I don’t have your jacket here, dickhead.” The lie comes out before he can even think about it. Why the fuck did he even say that? “And one scoop of salted caramel coming right up. That’ll be two-fifty.” 

“Left it in ya bed, pretty boy?” Billy teases, digging around in his pocket and pulling out a crumpled five dollar bill that he tosses onto the counter. 

Steve rolls his eyes as he scoops the ice cream into a cup. If he’s a little generous with the serving, it’s nobody’s business but his. He doesn’t get paid enough to deal with this shit anyway. He slides the cup over with a plastic spoon stuck in the middle of the mound, and grabs up the money, punching it into the register. “Keep the change.” Billy says, eyeing the nearly overflowing cup with curiosity. “But I still want my jacket. You home later?”

Steve does _not_ stare when Billy puts a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth, pink lips parting and tongue sticking out obscenely to lick off what clung to the spoon after he fellatioed it. It’s fucking vulgar, the way he drags his tongue over his lips after, wiping off the cream clinging to the corners and Steve shudders, knows Billy sees when it happens because his eyes go impossibly dark, like an ocean turned stormy and violent, pupils blowing wide. “My shift ends at eight.” He mutters, throat dry. 

“Good. I’ll come by for it then.” He says, low and sultry, pulling his lower lip between his teeth. It comes away spit-slicked and red and puffy, and Steve suddenly wants his mouth over it, wants to taste Billy and shove his tongue down the guy’s throat, sit in his lap and fucking hump him like a dog in heat- Jesus, he’s already getting a chub just thinking about it. Billy walks away, ass swaying in those tight fucking jeans and Steve lets out an audible groan, slumping onto the counter like melted ice cream falling off a cone. 

“Well that’s a bisexual disaster if I’ve ever seen one.” Robin chirps and Steve nearly jumps out of his skin, whipping around so hard his neck cracks. 

“Ow, fuck.” He mutters, rubbing the strained muscle. “Robs, it wasn’t-”

“Relax, dingus. I get it.” She says, throws him a soft, private smile and even softer eyes, a look he never thought Robin would make -- far less at _him_ \-- in his entire fucking life. The sudden tightness in his stomach slowly dissipates and he breathes out a quiet sigh, nodding. 

“Thanks.” He mumbles.

“Don’t mention it.” She pats his lower back consolingly. “Also, you’re such a bad liar, Harrington. He totally knew you have his jacket here.”

“What?” He screeches. “No way. No fucking way.” 

“Fucking way, buddy. Did you never learn how to lie to your parents?” She snorts. Something must pass over his face because her smile slowly disappears, and she turns to the freezer and starts arranging the buckets of ice cream. 

“How’d you know that one is his?” He asks, changing the topic. 

She shrugs, grabbing a cloth and wiping the inside of the display casing. “It’s not really your style. Plus you walked in here smelling like a douchebag.” Robin wrinkles her nose. “It was pretty obvious after he made that comment to connect the dots. If you want my advice, I’d tell you to go for it. It totally has the hots for you.” 

“Gee, thanks, Robs.” He sighs.

“Just… be careful, okay? You know what it’s like for people like us in towns like Hawkins.” A shadow falls over her face, dark and sorrowful and Steve feels a tug at his heartstrings. ‘ _Us’_ , she’d said. And here he thought he’d be alone all his life in this… whatever clusterfuck this is. The solidarity and her willingness to just expose herself like that for him has his eyes burning and he nods shakily, lips pressed together to keep himself in one piece. 

The thing is, Steve’s fucking drained. Like completely out of battery. He can barely keep his eyes peeled on the drive home - it’s a miracle he didn’t end up wrapped around a tree. Nearly brains himself on the front door, and then again when kicking off his shoes in the foyer. He makes it as far as the couch before he’s falling face first into it and passing the fuck out. 

There’s a pounding in Steve’s ears that he thinks might be his heart finally kicking into overdrive that has him flying up and tumbling right off the couch and onto the floor. “Fuck.” He rasps, pain shooting up his back. He presses his palm against his chest, feeling the jackrabbiting of the organ beneath his hand, and breathes a soft sigh of relief before sagging back against the coffee table and closing his eyes. He feels gross, knows he needs a shower, but it seems impossible right now. He doesn’t even know what time it is. 

The pounding starts again, angry and frantic and loud and this time Steve scrambles up on shaky legs, wide eyes darting around as he looks for... something, he doesn’t know what. That’s when he realises it’s the front door. _Billy_. Fuck. He sprints to it and swings it open frantically, almost cowering when he meets Billy’s murderous eyes and hand lifted in a fist just about face-height. Steve must look like utter shit because almost instantly, the anger melts off the guy’s face and is replaced with irritated concern. “You gonna let me in or what, Harrington? It’s cold as fucking balls out here.” He sneers and shoves his way past Steve, kicking off his boots on the floor. 

“Nice digs.” Billy whistles as he examines the house, eyes drawing all the way to the high ceilings. His look doesn’t match his words, though, face painted unimpressed, and Steve actually likes that, likes that Billy also hates this museum of a fucking house even if it’s not as much as he does or for the same reason. 

“Sure.” He replies sarcastically and pads into the kitchen, grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge. He downs half in one go and sighs at the immediate relief in his throat despite the water settling weirdly in his stomach. When it’s really bad, he throws up but hopefully, tonight isn’t one of those nights. “Want anything? I've got beer, juice and water."

“What kinda juice?” 

“Oh.” Steve flushes, looking back at the fridge. “Caprisun. I got it for the kids cuz they like the fruit punch. But you can have one if you want! They won’t know.” 

“Jesus, Steve.” Billy laughs, shaking his head. “Beer’s fine.” He heads over to the fridge himself and grabs a can, popping it open and drinking down the whole thing. It’s almost impressive except that Steve can do that too, with his eyes closed, so it’s really not. But Billy still manages to make it look good, like a show or art or something. He crushes the empty can in his fist and throws it on the island countertop with an obnoxious clatter, grabbing another beer and taking a more measured sip this time. “Nice jacket.” Billy nods at him, smirking over the rim of the can. 

Steve looks down and feels an incredible sense of deja vu. God, not again. “Yeah, I was, uh, just in case I forgot to give it back. Again.” He laughs awkwardly and slips it off, resting it over the back of one of the barstools. It makes him feel naked, not having it on, already used to the weight and smell and feel of it on him after one day. “Thanks, by the way. For lending it to me.” He adds, “and for last night.”

“You already thanked me for last night. Before you ran away.” Billy leans back against the counter. It must be painful, having it dig into his back, Steve would know, but he doesn’t seem affected even the slightest. 

“Well, yeah, I wanted to thank you again.” He ignores the part about running away.

Billy scoffs and shakes his head, taking a long drag of the beer and belching loudly when he’s done. “So, what does a pretty boy like you do at nine on a Sunday night?” 

“Honestly? Nothing.” Steve laughs, shrugs casually as he glances around the kitchen. There’s a single plate, glass and knife on the drying mat and his coffee thermos is in the sink. Otherwise, it’s just a bare, sterile room much like the rest of the house, too big for one lonely boy. “TV isn’t really my thing and my parents collect movies but they haven’t been back in a while so there’s nothing I haven’t already seen.” 

“How long is a while?”

“Seven or eight months maybe? I lost count a long time ago. Doesn’t matter anyway. There are snacks in the cupboard next to the fridge. Take what you want. I’m gonna head upstairs and change.”

“No grand tour of the Harrington mansion?” Billy teases, head already in the cupboard as he sifts through Steve’s secret hoard of snacks. The one even the kids don’t know about. 

“Nope, but if you’re really itching to see a bunch of empty fancily decorated rooms, you can have a look around yourself. Not gonna stop ya. Just don’t touch anything.” He glances at Billy’s back before heading up the stairs and to his room. It’s messy but feels impersonal despite the laundry piles on the floor, unmade bed and overflowing crystal ashtray he’d stolen from his dad’s office. His mom would have a fit if she saw the state of it but she hasn’t stepped foot in his room in two years when she redecorated it and put up the hideous plaid wallpaper against his protests. 

Steve throws his uniform over his desk chair and grabs an old Hawkins High shirt, faded with time and many rinse cycles, and sweatpants, pulling it on haphazardly. The minimal sleep he stole on the couch might have made matters worse. It feels like there’s a heavy, thick fog hanging over his head that’s weighing down his entire body and he can’t shake it. He’s mid-yawn when his door swings open. It has him jumping back, a yelp caught in his throat that turns into a grunt when he sees Billy standing in the doorway with an empty snickers wrapper, an eyebrow arched as he inspects Steve’s room. “Very underwhelming.” He hums to himself with a nod and steps aside, gesturing with his hand for Steve to follow him out. 

“Wow, your opinion of my room matters more than anything else in the world. I’ll definitely be redecorating it with corpses and beer and tits just to please your barbaric taste.” Steve mocks as he pads down the stairs. 

Behind him, Billy snorts. “Those are some big words, Harrington. I’m impressed.”

“Fuck you, man. Did you have dinner yet?” He’d been contemplating pizza before his shift ended but by the time he got to his car, he figured he could forgo dinner in favour of sleep. Now though, he could really do with something in his system other than the two cups of coffee he had this morning and the half of ham and cheese sandwich he’d stolen from Robin during lunch. 

“Yeah, but I could eat again. Growing boy and all.” Billy pats his stomach, leering as he drops onto the couch in the main living area, manspreading like an asshole. 

“Any preferences?” Steve calls from the hallway as he dials the pizza place. 

“I’m versatile but I prefer to top.” Billy yells back, amusement in his voice. The receiver drops from Steve’s hand with a clatter as it hits the floor, jaw falling right along with his stomach. He licks his lips, ears and the back of his neck heating up as he tries to compose himself, grabbing up the phone by the cord with shaking hands, arousal crawling through his veins thick like rich, dark molasses. Billy’s words have him breaking out into a cold sweat, his brain melting to mush more than it already is. Is he that obvious? Is the guy teasing him? Is he gonna tell the whole of Hawkins and then ride up with a mob to lynch him in the morning? He shakily places an order for a large pepperoni pizza and cheesy breadsticks, bile stinging the back of his throat, returning to the living room where Billy’s rummaging through his dad’s video collection like he didn’t just potentially outed himself. He picks out some boring French film noir thriller with subtitles and pushes it into the vcr. 

Steve carefully places himself in one corner of the couch and feels the cushions jostle when Billy throws himself down comfortably at the other end. They watch it in complete silence, broken only by the doorbell ringing. Steve hastily makes his way to the entrance and shoves the money at the delivery girl with a tired smile while accepting the food. When he gets back, Billy’s already got another can of beer and a bottle of water for Steve on the coffee table. 

The food slowly disappears between them, Steve’s eyes glued to the screen where a man with a heavy moustache is yelling something at a woman with dark hair and big brown eyes, or what Steve would assume is brown if not for the monochromatic greyscale. She reaches behind her and picks up a glass bottle from on a desk that he didn’t even realise was there, and clocks the guy on the head. He goes down instantly and Steve scoffs at how fake it looked but he’s also silently cheering on the woman for not taking the man’s bullshit. The scene switches to some other place and there’s another guy yelling? Why are so many men yelling? He blinks and then blinks again, realising the scene has changed once more. Were his eyes closed the entire time? He wants to ask Billy what’s going on but his mouth’s glued shut, head heavy on his shoulders and eyes drooping by the second. Eventually, he stops fighting and sinks right back into the soft cushions. 

The knitted throw that’s usually draped over the back of the recliner is tucked around him and the television’s off when he wakes up. The coffee table is void of beer cans and pizza boxes and soft light is streaming through the back door, the first tendrils of daylight reflecting off the pool, the house eerily silent the way it’s always been. Billy’s nowhere to be seen. The jacket’s still there.

Steve’s examining a box of cereal he’s never seen before so it must be new, what with the bright red colour and weird cartoon character with big eyes staring back at him, when his head swims. He looks down at the basket of groceries in his hand with a frown. This hasn’t happened in a while and he’s actually had lunch so it can’t be malnourishment or whatever Robin keeps harping him about. Throwing the box in with his other items, he turns to head to the cashier when it happens again. His entire view tilts violently, the aisle spinning. A vague sense of being pulled down overcomes him, a strangled sound escaping his lips as his vision dims before going black. 

He comes to in a dimly lit room with bare walls, cheap plastic furniture arranged to give it some twisted sense of comfort, and none other than Billy Hargrove at his side on the lumpy couch he’s lying on. “Fucking finally. We gotta stop meeting like this, Stevie.” The guy mutters, standing and pacing around the room like a caged animal, shoulders tense and jaw clenched. 

“What happened? Where the fuck am I?” Steve mumbles, rubbing his eyes. He hasn’t seen Billy in a week, not like he’d been counting down the days or keeping an eye open for an obnoxious blue Camaro and its equally irritating owner.

“You fainted, asshole. In the fucking grocery. It’s a good thing I was rounding the aisle. Managed to catch your pretty head before you cracked it open on the floor.” Steve winces at the imagery of dark blood pooling around his head like a morbid halo. “The manager let me bring you here.” He finishes, waving his hand around at what Steve now realises must be the break room. There’s even a countertop with an empty coffee pot, stained brown from use.

“Shit.” He sighs and runs a hand through his hair, grimacing at the oily, wilted texture. 

“You’re really shit at taking care of yourself, aren’t ya?” Billy mutters, glaring at him with a pinched look.

He shrugs. “I do what I gotta do, man. It’s nothing.”

“Nothing?” The blond barks a harsh laugh, storming up to him and shoving him hard into the couch. “You have no fucking food in your house,” he starts listing, lifting his fingers in accordance, “you look like a motherfucking zombie whenever we meet-” The pressure that’s been building up in Steve’s chest and head feels like it’s pressing against the walls of his ribs, ready to explode him into a million tiny pieces. “-your hair is shit, in general, you look like shit-” His eyes burn something vicious, stomach tightening and limbs drawing stiff, that darkness that’s been consuming him for almost a year now reaching deep and pulling at all that hurt and pain he’s been feeling and trying to push away, “-and then you go blacking out ‘round fuck-all Hawkins. What if you were driving, huh?” 

“Then I would have just died!” Steve screams. It feels good -- _relieving_ . The pressure instantly lifts from his chest, carrying all the ugliness with it and he can’t stop. Can’t stop the tears falling from his eyes or the words pouring out of his mouth. “I would have fucking died, Billy. And you know what?” He laughs hysterically, pulling at his hair. “No one would have cared. Not a single fucking person. Because I’m- I don’t matter. Not important. Fucking… _fuck!”_ He yells, punching the couch. Steve heaves, can’t get himself to stop sobbing like the fucking wreck he is, body shaking uncontrollably. He cries until he gets lightheaded all over again, face sticky and eyes swollen, skin burning from salt and snot and rubbing at it with his sweater sleeve, spiralling into gaping maws of darkness awaiting. Everything hurts. 

“You’re hugging me.” He croaks, voice shot to hell some undetermined amount of time later. Steve tries to lift his head from Billy’s shoulder but manages as far as pressing his face into those soft blond curls before returning to the safety in the crook of his neck once more. He’d clearly checked out during his breakdown and Steve’s no stranger to that, but the presence of someone else there, someone holding him through it is a unique experience in its own right.

“Yeah, baby. I am.” Billy whispers into his hair, squeezing him a little. It’s weirdly comforting, grounding in a way he’s never before experienced. Steve’s always been the one giving hugs, has always initiated and held. He’s never been held. Never in such a strong, warm embrace that actually feels real. 

“Feels good.” He murmurs, smiles when it earns him a low chuckle. 

“Gonna take you home, Harrington. Gonna take care of you.” 

“Yeah?” He slurs, already feeling the exhaustion pulling him down. 

“Yeah, pretty boy. I promise.” 

“Excited?” Robin asks, flicking the indicator and looking left and right before turning off the intersection and pulling into the parking lot. It’s actually snowing now and it’s cold as fuck, even with Billy’s bomber and a winter coat piled onto him. 

“Nothing about this is ever exciting.” Steve grumbles, tugging the beanie he’d stolen from Robin over his ears. He hears her yelp and curse when they exit the car, and then they’re both hobbling across the lot to the building entrance, bracing the freezing air along the way. He can feel the snowflakes melting into the knitted wool of the hat when he waves at the receptionist who smiles and nods at him to head to the elevator. 

“I know, dingus.” Robin grins, punching the third-floor button where Doctor Owens’ office is. “But therapy is good. I’m glad you’re doing this. You know I’m proud of you, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Don’t get all sentimental on me. It’s only been two months anyway and I only did it because Billy forced me.” 

“He didn’t force you to keep coming back.” She nudges his arm with her shoulder. They step out into the empty waiting room, taking a seat by the water dispenser. “You’re not doing this for him, right?” 

“No, no.” He laughs, dispelling her worry with a fond smile. “Well, partially. But I also wanna get better. At the risk of my parents finding out a _Harrington_ needs a fucking shrink and then disowning me-”

“-in which case I’ll be more than fucking happy to put you up at my house because my parents adore you more than they love their own daughter.” Robin adds with a grin. 

He spares her an eyeroll before continuing, “-I don’t want to feel like this forever. I don’t want to become them. This year has been horrible.” His voice gets smaller as he drops his gaze to his lap, fiddling with the seam of his coat. “I might have- no, I would have- if Billy… yeah.” He exhales shakily.

Her hand clasps his and she gives it a gentle squeeze. “I’m so glad you’re here, Steve. So is Billy, and the kids. We’re all so proud of you and I feel honoured that you asked me to come with you today. Really.”

“Thanks, Buckles. "Steve laughs wetly.

“Ah, Steve! You’re here early. Oh, and you must be Robin. Harrington’s told me a lot about you. I’m Doctor Owens.” A short, stocky man pokes his head out of the doorway to his office with a bright smile and warm eyes. 

“All good things, I hope.” Robin returns and the doctor laughs. 

“Always.” He winks. “Ready for your session, buddy?”

“Coming, Doc.” Steve says, standing. He turns to Robin. “Meet you in an hour.” 

“Sure, dingus. I’ll be here.” 

“How was your session?” Billy’s stirring soup in his mom’s dutch oven. Steve doesn’t think he’s ever seen her use it. It had been a gift from one of his dad’s associate’s wives or something. 

“Heavy.” He admits, slumping down onto the barstool at the island, pillowing his head on his arms. He’d shucked his coat and beanie in the foyer but Billy’s bomber remains wrapped tightly around him, his nose pressed into the collar. 

The blond hums softly and turns to give him a gentle look. “Food will be done in a minute. I made grilled cheese too.” He smiles. 

“Thanks, babe” Steve mutters, feeling like he’s been put through the wringer and his emotions have been squeezed out of him. After sessions like these, they usually have dinner in silence and go to bed right after. Billy doesn’t stop holding him until his alarm rings in the morning for work. 

“Max and Henderson came over earlier. Said something about Christmas dinner with Henderson’s mom tomorrow.” 

“Oh fuck. I forgot tomorrow is Christmas.” Steve moans into the tile. 

“Hey, we don’t have to go if you’re not up for it. Kid even offered to drop the food if you’re not feeling well.”

“He did?” He looks up, blinking at Billy who’s dishing out the soup into two bowls. The grilled cheese is out of the oven on a plate, cooling. 

“Yeah. I don’t mind staying home all day tomorrow. We can pig out on free food and watch movies. I got Adam to copy some of his tapes for us.” Billy grins.

“Billy, that’s illegal! What if the cops find out?” Steve exclaims despite the laughter bubbling in his throat. 

“You think Hop’s gonna bust down the door for that shit?” The guy cocks a brow and then nods his head at the plate before taking the bowls and relocating to the living room. When Steve follows him out, already munching on one of the sandwiches, he stops at the pile of blankets and cushions pooled on the floor, made up into a cosy little nest. The fire’s roaring in the brick hearth and there’s a tiny christmas tree covered in red and green and gold balls, small enough to sit on the coffee table and not obstruct them from the orange flames dancing along the wooden blocks that Billy must have also gotten while he was at his appointment.

“What’s this?” He exclaims breathlessly, blinking the mist from his eyes. Last Christmas he’d spent it at Nancy’s feeling like he didn’t quite belong and wishing he’d stayed home in his dark, empty house instead. This is nothing he’d ever dreamt of when he imagined Christmas here. Not since he was seven years old. 

“Like it? The shitheads helped me before they left. Thought it’d be nice. Also, I’m fucking broke so I was hoping you’d accept this as a Christmas present.” 

Steve swallows around the lump in his throat and exhales shakily to stop his chin from wobbling. “It’s perfect. I- Billy, thank you.” He joins Billy in the middle of the nest, pulling a white blanket up and over them, burrowing into his boyfriend’s side. It’s so warm around him, comforting and safe, and he has to stop his hands from shaking before accepting his bowl of soup, pressing a kiss to Billy’s lips and feeling the blond smile against his mouth. “You’re the best thing that’s happened to me this year.” He whispers. 

He watches as Billy’s smile grows, cheeks dimpling and blue eyes glowing under the bright flames and dim lights, and knows Billy feels the same. Doctor Owens was right - Steve finally sees it now. It’s only going to get better. 


End file.
